


Keep Holding Me This Way

by Lilviscious



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Masochism, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilviscious/pseuds/Lilviscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As time passed and his large, calloused hands became less rough, and his gruff voice less menacing, and his fierce eyes less threatening, and his hovering presence less intimidating – Tim became curious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Holding Me This Way

**Author's Note:**

> I'm usually not the type to write such a dark theme, but with Jay and Tim.. man, this basically wrote itself.

“I’ll strip you bare..  
Peel off layer after layer..  
Let’s see if I can find what makes _you_..”

He never heard the end of the threat. There was only so long he could do without oxygen, after all. And his hands had been tightening non-stop, squeezing the life from his body.   
But when he came to, Tim understood that was not his intention. And he could think of several words to fill in the blanks. Break? Tick? Special? Cry? Hurt? Worth it? The options were endless. He didn’t want to show whatever he was searching for. Didn’t dare make a sound and cursed him when he was forced to nevertheless.

“Such a pretty _chirp_ , babybird.”

Perhaps it was best not to know. Whatever motive the man had for the pain he inflicted, whatever goal urged him to be this relentless, Tim had no clue other than hoping to sate him and keep track of time. Of course there was no knowing how long he had been unconscious for. Hours, days perhaps. Observing his perpetrator proved useless: the man always wore the same pants, shirt and jacket, perhaps swapped with spares whenever he permitted Tim a few hours rest. His own body odor wasn’t a reliable indication either. He had been sweating from the start, still didn’t know where he was keeping him in this dark, moist place. A basement, a bunker? How could it be so warm if they were underground however? Was he purposely dehydrating him?

He tongued his chapped lips and the dried up blood from the cut the man’s fist had caused. Once a day he was given two glasses of water. Tim had refused them the first two times, became aware of the dangers, but wouldn’t give the man the pleasure of pleading for it. Let it be the death of him before his mind weakened and revealed too much. Of course that had prompted him to force gallons down his throat, nearly choking him, but hydrating him in the process. Tim had coughed and wheezed and glared at him from in between the dripping tips of his bangs.

“You don’t get to decide how this ends, replacement.”

Tim had a feeling he knew very well what lack of control meant to him. There was plenty he knew about his persona, enough to alarm Tim into believing he might have been monitored for months without ever knowing. There was no telling what he knew already. But he was getting familiar with his perpetrator also, observing him quietly.  
He said he wasn’t that big on using knifes. Well, that was a big fat lie. Even with two black swollen eyes could Tim see what satisfaction he gained from every cut, every pinch of the cold silver tip breaking his skin. For the first time since his capture, he was urged to call him out on his behavior, but his blood lay thick on his tongue and it was all he could do not to choke on that either. Seriously, this pattern was becoming dull even if the means differed.

Still, as time passed and his large, calloused hands became less rough, and his gruff voice less menacing, and his fierce eyes less threatening, and his hovering presence less intimidating – Tim became curious. Curiosity killed the cat. He was a bird however.

“You have an oral fascination,” Tim quipped after a dirty cloth had wiped away traces of porridge from his face. He was a horrible feeder. But not a terrible cook. The food was simple, but good and nutritious.

“Your first words are endearing. Now shut the fuck up.” And the spoon was forced between his lips, kept knocking against his teeth until they ached and was eventually buried deep down his throat. He gagged twice when the cutlery was twisted upside down and the force of his power demanded he opened his mouth. His hand knotted in his hair, yanking his head back. Under the pressure his tongue and thus his speech was numbed, but his curiosity wasn’t. Saliva trickled from his mouth down his chin, mouth agape and under his inspection. Tim grunted, tugged at the ropes securing his hands behind his back and was granted a broad grin.

“You want to spread your wings, babybird? No problem.” 

Somehow, Tim believed he should have seen this coming. In a matter of days, of course he could only guess how many exactly, his perpetrator had introduced him to a new accommodation. His arms were ‘spread’ as promised, the skin of his wrists red and angry, and tied to a rusted bedframe. Unfortunately his legs were spread as well, tied in the same fashion and thus not granting him any freedom either. Immobile, he lay on the thin stinking mattress, facing the other side as his chest heaved heavily. It always took a few seconds to catch his breath and to slow the pounding of his heart. A shadow informed him he was looming over him. His hand yanked his head back, darkness following soon as a cloth rubbed at his face. Tim didn’t resist, even tilted his head just so to let the man know he was missing a spot. He could see feel it stick to his skin, hoped he would get used to the scent soon so his stomach would stop churning.

“There, better?” Tim stared at his amused smirk and bit down on the thumb pressing against his swollen lips. A flinch, hah. His eyes shone brightly in victory. “Hardly,” he replied cheekily.

“Brat.” The punch was expected, lolling Tim’s head back to the side where he had been gazing at the wall in the first place. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as his skin tingled and became hot. Imagine the color: first red then blue, perhaps black or purple. He was strong, so very strong, and had colored his body in many different shades. The sudden pressure on his crotch caused him to arch his back of the mattress, grunting. The familiar texture of his boot was merciless and he was sensitive, so sensitive. There was a laugh, more like a bark, above him. Tim glanced at him and panted.

“Better?” He was asked once more, the man’s eyes—his _eyes_.

His bare body shivered under his gaze, the throbbing of his crotch intensifying.

“ _Better_ ,” he breathed out, hissing as the boot moved with short motions, determined to rub him to complexion. His eyes, a storm at sea, wild and undeniable, moved towards him. Unblinking, he tasted his lips, the sharp nip making him gasp. Further inhaling was nearly impossible, the kissing so fierce, the hand on his chest pressing even harder than the boot to his arousal. His throat was encircled by his thick fingers, blunt nails breaking his skin in five different place. Tim moaned. The hold tightened.

His eyes fluttered, chest burning, loins burning, entire being _burning_. He realized he didn’t mind not breathing if he could resume watching his eyes. He was drowning in them. Drowning so pleasantly. 

He never knew that was the time he didn’t stop him from choking.

**Author's Note:**

> You might wonder why I never mentioned Jason's name. It is intentionally avoided to show Tim tries to distance himself from the person he knows in order to stay sane. But then, in the end, it doesn't matter. And it doesn't matter that's it Jason -- it could be anyone at this point, anyone with such eyes and hands. Ayup. Might need some fluff now.


End file.
